


Routine, Interrupted

by flowerdeluce



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Charades, Friendship, Gen, Remix, Remix Revival 2019, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-07-28 06:07:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20059270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerdeluce/pseuds/flowerdeluce
Summary: Captain Picard seeks out social interaction during an evening when, for once, he's not being interrupted every two minutes. Little does he know, he's about to get roped into a game of charades.





	Routine, Interrupted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raktajinos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raktajinos/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Routine & Ritual](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18861247) by [raktajinos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raktajinos/pseuds/raktajinos). 

Picard peered at his door again, optimistic that if he gave it enough attention the chime would announce an unexpected visitor. 

His PADD screen showed no unread reports, no new transmissions from Starfleet, and no changes to the _Enterprise_’s lengthy plotted course. Books littered his table—mostly old favorites he’d promptly lost interest in after the first few sentences. Even his flute held no appeal, and these rare uninterrupted ship’s evenings were the kind he longed for when he was in the mood to play. 

A Starfleet captain’s evenings weren’t usually so uneventful. An officer would visit unannounced, soliciting advice. There’d be some musical or theatrical performance to attend. He’d have a meeting scheduled in his packed diary for some activity or visit: the arboretum hosting a gardening class, an awards ceremony for the children, a sporting tournament in the holodeck. At the very least, he’d have a log to record.

These pockets of free time should be cherished, Picard supposed. A rare chance to relax. Though, he’d tired of reclining on his couch and waiting for someone to disturb him after a mere five minutes. Even a particularly invigorating collection of Mozart’s Viennese sonatinas hadn’t kept his attention. Relaxation just wasn’t something he had much experience with. It felt like wasted time. 

Perhaps downtime was better shared. Pressing the panel beside him, he asked the computer for Will’s location. 

“Commander Riker is in Counselor Troi’s quarters.” 

Ah. He wouldn’t disturb.

Data made an interesting conversationalist, skilled at both filling silences and listening attentively. This evening, he’d welcome Data’s ability to spill fact after fact about topics he personally found invigorating, possibly borrowing the nearest display screen to add illustrative imagery, with the enthusiasm and level of detail of a conference speaker. Asking the computer for Data’s location, he was intrigued to discover he was present in the counselor’s quarters also. 

Beverly, then. They always found something to talk about. She had an exceptional ability to make any morsel of information sound fascinating, to wring something mouth-watering from the driest topic with her dissecting perspective. She’d most certainly see through his reaching out. He could hear her now, chiding him for not appreciating the solitude he’d crave when he couldn’t find a moment’s peace. 

“Doctor Crusher is in Counselor Troi’s quarters,” the computer told him. 

Worf would be with Alexander. If not, he’d be keeping himself in peak physical condition in the gymnasium. 

“Lieutenant Worf is in—”

“Counselor Troi’s quarters,” Picard finished, speaking in tandem with the computer’s impassive voice. 

It appeared he had no choice but to pay a visit to the place everyone wanted to be. 

*

A hum of conversation and laughter bled into the silent corridor from behind Deanna’s door. When Picard pressed the chime, her voice rose above it. 

“Come in!” 

The doors slid open, everyone turning towards him, and . . . the atmosphere popped. The room’s seated occupants—Will, Worf, Beverly, Data and Deanna—fell into a surprised silence. It was like a strict parent had caught them up past their bedtime. 

“Hello, Captain,” Deanna said, coming to greet him in her doorway. The conversation quickly recovered its earlier vigor behind her. “We were expecting Geordi. He’s late. Would you care to join us?” 

Picard peered over her shoulder. Everyone was busy writing on scraps of paper, folding and dropping them into two near-overflowing glass bowls. A large space had been cleared in the room’s center, mismatched chairs arranged in a half-circle around the emptied carpet.

“Charades,” Deanna clarified with a gentle smile. “Not our typical game, but we thought it would make a nice change.” 

Picard knew the bridge crew liked their poker. Will’s poker face was legendary, or so he’d been told, and Data’s shuffling technique second to none. From what he recalled about charades, poker’s competitive element remained, though it lacked the luck of a deal—you were either good at it or you weren’t.

“If you wouldn’t mind a keen observer, I’d very much like to watch.” 

Perching upon the edge of Deanna’s dining table, pushed aside behind the chairs, Picard saw the others had split into two teams: there was a noticeable gap between two quarters of the half-circle, though one quarter had two vacant chairs presently. On one side were Will, Worf, and Beverly. On the other sat Data, Geordi’s empty chair, and the seat Deanna vacated to greet Picard at the door.

“Can I get you some tea?” Deanna asked, while the others were still cramming paper into the bowls at their feet.

“Please.”

She was already standing at the replicator when she asked, “Earl Grey?”

“Actually, I’m in the mood for something a little different. Surprise me.” 

Deanna pressed a button on the replicator rather than speaking her order aloud. That ensured the selected tea remained a surprise, but it also alerted Picard to the fact that this was something the counselor ordered regularly enough to warrant programming it as a favorite. It’d be sweet, then, though hopefully not sickly.

Over the years, Picard had tweaked the replicator settings in his quarters and ready room to ensure near perfection in his Earl Grey. It was, of course, nothing compared to tea made with water boiled in his grandmother’s antique kettle, the measurements of leaves and steeping time perfected to the second. That extra-special routine was reserved for the ship’s mornings, the mild caffeine hit the perfect addition to breakfast. 

“If Geordi can’t make it,” Deanna said to the glittering particles coalescing into a glass of tea, “will you join my team?”

“I’d be delighted.”

The tea was a pale amber color. Two perfectly spherical ice cubes floated at the top, clinking against the glass as she passed it to him.

“Jestral tea,” Deanna said with a nod. “A Betazed favorite. It’s said to clear the mind and stimulate the senses. You may need it tonight, sir.” 

“I consider myself warned.” He took a sip and raised an eyebrow at the taste—honeyed, with a citrus kick. Not overly sweet at all. “Delicious.” 

“All finished with the prompts?” Deanna asked the others, walking along the line and taking their pencils and leftover paper. 

Plucking the bowl from the space of carpet before the full team, Deanna handed it to Data, and Data passed his bowl across to Beverly. 

“Geordi’s running late,” Deanna continued, “so I’d like to suggest that the captain steps in for him if he doesn’t arrive in time. Agreed?”

After a positive-sounding murmur of agreement, Beverly looked over her shoulder and smiled at him.

“Right. Let’s play.” 

“Would it be possible to get a refresher on the rules?” Picard called from the back, mildly embarrassed. He’d played the game once or twice at the Academy, and each time the rules gave cause for argument if not properly laid down beforehand. 

“We’re playing _Earth_ rules,” Worf said, bitter. 

Picard was about to say that Earth was a big planet when Worf cut him off. 

“To be victorious in a game of Klingon charades, _vang’chuH_, one uses the least number of gestures possible to enact the topic. Two is acceptable, though one is custom. Those who cannot, prove they lack imagination and creativity.” 

It was certainly a night of firsts. Picard having free time. _Iced_ tea. A Klingon boasting about creativity. 

“Wait,” Will said, eyes pinching into a skeptical squint. “You can’t tell me you could sum up, say, an entire Klingon opera with one gesture?”

“It is completely possible if one is skilled.” 

“Yes,” Deanna interrupted before an argument could break out, “but as you said, Worf, we’re playing Earth rules tonight. Only children play on Betazed, before developing any telepathic ability, so I’m out of practice too.” She nodded towards Picard, still perched on the table’s edge. “The captain’s right. Reviewing the rules is an excellent idea.” 

It dawned on Picard then why Deanna had teamed up with Data: she wouldn’t get any mental hints from an emotionless android. Geordi, yes, but it wouldn’t be the same as going head to head—or brain to brain—with a full Betazoid, and no one would accuse Deanna of cheating.

“If it may be of help, Counselor,” Data piped up in his usual obliging tone, “my knowledge repository holds an extensive selection of Earth rules for charades, with variations in relation to difficulty, time period, country of origin—” 

“No, thank you, Data,” Deanna said, a hand held out to halt what would undoubtedly become a long-winded explanation. “Let’s keep things simple.” She looked at Picard, then gestured to the bowls, one on Data’s lap, the other on Beverly’s. “Each team has placed prompts in their opposing team’s bowl. They can be anything from Klingon bloodwine to . . . Starbase seventy-four! We’ll take it in turns to take a prompt and act it out for our team in two minutes or less. Now, as for acting…”

Taking a step back, Deanna ran through the basic gestures. The number of words were displayed with fingers, syllables tapped against the forearm. There were signs for long words, small ones, plurals and rhymes, actions for simulations, books, plays, planets and star systems, species, and individual persons. It all came back to Picard in a rush of nostalgia. 

“Worf, why don’t you go first?” Deanna sat beside Data and patted his thigh. If there was anyone more out of their depth with this game than Picard, it was Data.

“Glad to,” Worf said, taking a folded scrap of paper from his team’s bowl and stepping out into the center of the cleared carpet. As he opened it, his lips curled into a snarl. “This is—”

“Nuh-uh.” Deanna raised a finger. “We agreed. The prompt can be anything. Computer, begin a two-minute silent countdown.” 

Worf’s gaze snapped back to the prompt in his hand as if searching for a different one squeezed between the letters, frozen with hesitation over how to tackle it. 

Picard wondered if he’d end up in a similar position if he were standing in the spotlight. Charades involved finding a balance between offering too much and overcomplicating, to performances too abstract to catch integral nuances. Worf wasn’t one to sugar-coat things. If his technique was anything like his written reports, it’d be as direct as possible.

“You don’t have to do it in less than two gestures, Worf,” Beverly encouraged, elbows pressing into her knees as she leaned forward. “Anything will help.” 

Still deep in thought, Worf raised his left hand and formed a flattened C with his fingers and thumb. It looked like a half-closed claw. He held it there awhile, looking at it as though working out what to do with it. Pointing the tip of his right index finger within the claw shape, he paused, giving Beverly and Will time to study it. Then, with a sharp movement that had everyone jolting in alarm, his fingertip shot out as far as Worf’s arm reached, coming around in a wide circle before returning. 

“…Sewing?” Beverly asked, more unsure than Picard had ever heard her sound. He wanted to laugh, but at least she’d attempted a guess; he had no clue.

Worf rolled his eyes and tried again, repeating the same action exactly as before, though with frustrated emphasis.

“A rocket?” Will tried. 

Picard could see where Will had gotten that. Perhaps the claw shape was a planet, the fingertip something blasting away from it. A wave of Worf’s hand said the guess was close but not close enough. 

“A comet?” Will started, losing patience as Worf repeated the action, refusing to give anything further. “Asteroid? Orbit? A ship? A—” Worf’s hopeful look stopped him. “A ship?”

“A ship taking off and going on a journey…” Beverly mused. 

Will asked, “Is it our ship?”

“No questions!” Deanna chirped. 

The computer’s voice broke in: “Two minutes have elapsed.” 

“It was our shuttlecraft, the _Cochrane_,” Worf snapped, turning to Data with an annoyed edge to the already sharp angles of his face, as if he knew the Commander was behind this particularly difficult prompt. Perhaps his handwriting gave him away.

Will sat back in his seat, baffled. “How was that the _Cochrane_?” 

“How was it _not_?” 

As Worf slumped into his seat, Deanna jumped up. Digging her hand into the bowl still resting on Data’s lap, she fished around in the bottom and withdrew a scrap before unfolding it carefully. A raise of her eyebrows accompanied by a small nod displayed both her surprise and confidence. The computer began the countdown at her command.

Finishing his tea—and most certainly feeling invigorated by it—Picard placed the empty glass on the table beside him and leaned forward. Deanna’s usual body language was reserved. She was discreet about her personal thoughts and feelings but spoke clearly when required to share them. It would be interesting to see how she’d handle performing for an android. 

“Two words,” Data said, prompted by Deanna holding up two perfectly manicured fingers. 

She began tracing the shape of what appeared to be a stepped pyramid in the air.

“Egypt,” Data said proudly, apparently in agreement about what the shape might be. 

Moving on, Deanna wrapped her palms around each elbow one after the other, then both points of her knees. 

“Joints,” Data tried. 

Her hands came together to form a circle. 

“Egg.”

Moving that circle to her right, she broke it, then acted throwing something towards it with her left hand.

Picard had it! Parrises squares. Deanna was breaking it down into small, related pieces, starting by setting the scene and slowly building layers of detail upon it. The pyramid was the playing floor. Then elbow and knee pads, the hoop and ball. Sure enough, the next thing she mimed was leaning down, exaggerating the weight of an imagined ion mallet by wiping her forehead, then lifting it and striking forwards. 

“Construction.” Data wasn’t making the connection. It was frustrating once you knew what he couldn’t grasp, but Deanna’s face retained its ever-patient softness.

Throwing her arms wide to suggest Data look at the bigger picture, she repeated all the gestures, faster this time, while Data watched silently. Abruptly breaking the sequence before she got to the end, she waved her hands in the air excitedly, raised two fingers, then stressed them again.

“Second word,” Data nodded, following her.

Deanna drew a square in the air. 

“Square.”

She nodded excitedly. Just as Data opened his mouth to make another guess, the computer announced that the two minutes had elapsed. 

“Parrises squares!” Beverly, Will, and Worf said to Data in unison, having managed to hold their frustration back as Picard had until the timer ran out.

Data turned to them, completely puzzled, then looked at Deanna again, who confirmed with a nod. “Of course. I am sorry, Counselor.” 

Deanna patted his arm and told him not to worry about it. 

While Beverly made her way to the center, Picard studied Data. His eyebrows were no longer furrowed, but his gold eyes flitted from side to side, no longer focused on the game. He was most likely replaying Deanna’s clues in his memory record and finding their connection; this game would be quite the learning experience for him. 

Beverly looked delighted when she opened her prompt. She touched her chest, looking at her opposing team—though, perhaps Deanna in particular—with a warm smile. Was that a clue in itself? 

As soon as the timer began counting down, Beverly imitated opening theatre curtains. 

“A play,” Will said, and Beverly nodded. “Three words. Third word.”

Hands together as if in prayer, Beverly tipped her head to one side and rested her cheek upon them, eyes closed. Acting waking up, she yawned and stretched, pretended to rub her eyes. Her gestures were exaggerated and melodramatic, like classic pantomime, her theatrical training shining through. 

“A dream,” Will tried. Then, fast, “_A Midsummer Night’s Dream_! No…” 

Beverly rubbed her stomach, then mimicked eating. Picard could almost see the slice of buttered toast in her hand, she performed it with such skill. 

“Eating? Food? Bite…”

While Will trailed off, Worf remained silent, hands crossed on his lap, paying close attention.

“First word,” Will said with a nod, following Beverly’s fingers. 

Removing an invisible tricorder from her belt, she squatted and scanned the air beside her. Checking the screen before closing it, she turned to her team and shrugged, palms upwards. 

With complete confidence, Worf announced, “_Something for Breakfast_.” 

“Yes!” Beverly clapped. “Well done!” She looked over at Deanna with that warm smile again. Her own play in the mix probably came as a pleasant surprise. 

Picard mentally scolded himself. How hadn’t he gotten that? He was in it! (Albeit briefly.) Perhaps it was Beverly’s captivating performance that distracted him. Yes. That must be it.

“You’re next,” Deanna said to Data, taking the bowl from him so he could stand. 

Turning away from the bowl, Data reached inside and dug around near the bottom as Deanna had, walking out into the center once he had a slip of paper in hand. He looked at it, made absolutely no reaction, then told the computer to begin the two-minute countdown. 

Immediately, Data repositioned himself at one side of the room, his back almost touching the wall. He acted inputting something into a console, perhaps the helm’s or his station at ops. His pale fingers skipped through the air as if a screen were really there, natural, with his usual speed and dexterity. 

Crossing to the other side of the room, he acted walking up steps, then faced where he’d stood previously. He indicated a large circle on the ground about his feet, stood straight again and nodded his head. Then, for the first time since the countdown began, he lost confidence. His lips parted and closed in momentary confusion. He looked toward Deanna as if asking for help. It appeared he’d hit a bump in the road. 

Picard thought he might know what Data was acting out. This well-staged scene was the ship’s transporter room. Data had shown himself at the controls, then stepping up onto the pad ready for transport. Portraying the process of transporting required creativity, acting something impossible to recreate with the same accuracy as pressing buttons and ascending steps. 

After some hesitation, Data raised his arms and made a delicate gesture before his face with a fluid motion of his fingers. Rushing to the corner of the room, he repeated the watery movement before looking up and around himself with interest. 

“Transporting,” Deanna said softly. She sounded uncertain, but Picard thought she had it.

Data pointed at his feet, eagerness lifting his eyebrows into a high arch. 

“The transporter _pad_?”

“Correct, Counselor. Excellent guesswork. Computer, end countdown.”

“We’re one-all,” Will said, grabbing a prompt from the bowl. “Let’s see if we can’t get into the lead.”

As Will stood, the door chimed. Geordi stood behind it when it parted at Deanna’s called answer, looking more than a little flustered. 

“I am so sorry I’m late,” he said pleadingly, rushing in. He stopped when he met Picard’s gaze, almost tripped over his feet. “Captain?”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Picard said, feeling like he’d crashed a party for the second time this evening. “It was almost time for me to fill in for you.” 

Geordi took the seat beside Deanna and the two of them whispered and giggled for a moment. When Will opened his paper, the exasperated glare he gave Deanna stopped her conversation mid-word. She pursed her lips, stifling a laugh. Picard had always wondered if the two of them shared a deeper empathic bond than they let on, but you didn’t need to be an empath to see that Deanna knew exactly what was written on Will’s paper and that Will knew exactly who’d put it there.

“Right,” Will said, slipping the prompt into his pocket. Eyes fixed on Deanna, he said, “Computer, begin a two-minute silent countdown.” 

Will’s hands over his ears signified a song. When he held up two fingers, Beverly shouted out the obvious.

“Second word.” 

A simple opening and closing beak signed with one hand and a flap of his arms, and even Worf said bird, if quietly. 

“_Rockin’ Robin_!” Beverly shouted. When Will laughed silently and shook his head, she covered her mouth with her hands. Mumbling into her palm, she kept guessing. “_Blackbird_. _Blue Bird_ . . . _Grey Goose_?” 

Will continued, acting out the first word. As Beverly had, he mimed sleep with folded hands. When that got them nowhere (Beverly trying sleep, dream, bed, and pillow), Will held up his hand, forming a circle with forefinger and thumb high above his head. Slowly, he lowered the circle, and when it reached his shoulder, he yawned. 

Picard mentally clicked his fingers. The setting sun. He wanted to shout something out along those lines, but he was merely an observer here, nothing more. 

“Want to hazard a guess, Worf?” Will asked. 

Deanna shushed him like a hissing snake. 

“_Night Bird_!” Beverly screeched, a half-second before the computer announced the two minutes were up. 

Will clapped his hands together and pointed at his rival team. “If you don’t get the next one, we win. And _Night Bird_, Deanna? Seriously?” 

“At least you can act it, even if you can’t play it,” Deanna teased.

Will’s smile was bright enough to blind. 

“Is it me?” Geordi asked, pointing at himself.

Deanna nodded. “You were just in time.” 

After taking the stage, Geordi stepped back over to grab his forgotten paper scrap from his team’s bowl, shaking his head. “Yeah, I need one of these don’t I?” His eyebrows lifted high above his VISOR when he unfolded the paper. “Uh…” He licked his lips. “Ok-a-ay.”

Deanna started the timer. Geordi sighed, wiped his palm over his brow. Almost apologetically, he raised four fingers. 

“Four words,” Data said.

“Actually…” Geordi mumbled, putting his hand over his mouth at speaking aloud. He waved the four words away and began again, gesturing that he was about to act the whole thing. 

Standing up straight, he gave his uniform jacket an obvious tug from the bottom with both hands. There was a titter from Beverly, though it might’ve been a gasp. Geordi mimed holding something small before cocking his little finger and taking a sip from what was instantly recognizable as a cup. He bared his teeth in a hiss, bringing his hand to his lips like he’d been scalded. 

"Tea,” Deanna announced, sitting straight in her chair, “Earl Grey. Hot!” 

“Right!”

Every head turned, five pairs of eyes peering back cautiously to see how their captain would take a joke at his expense. The tension in the room was, briefly, as taut as it had been when Picard first arrived. His soft chuckle broke it instantly. 

“Very funny. I don’t do the finger thing do I?” His cheeks felt warm.

Deanna chuckled and shook her head. “Who put that in there?”

Riker leaned across Worf’s lap towards Deanna, a sly smile crinkling his eyes. “I put ‘Risian culture’ in. It’s a shame it didn’t get picked. I was very interested to see how you’d act it out.” 

Deanna’s eyes went wide as Data began explaining his take on it—_Well, Commander, the first thing I would act would be removing my uniform, as Risa’s…_—but Beverly stopped him, and just in time. 

“There is no dignity in a draw,” Worf said with aggressive impatience.

“You’re absolutely right.” Picard stepped up from the table. “I propose that I perform a tie-breaker. The team that shouts out the correct answer first is declared the winner.” 

“Oh, what a good idea,” Beverly said, patting her knees. “Yes, let’s do it.” 

Stepping out into the spotlight, Picard tried to think of something simple to act out. He tugged at his uniform absent-mindedly. Geordi’s impersonation immediately came to mind, making him immediately self-conscious. Perhaps a Shakespeare? No… Too involved. A star system? 

He looked through Deanna’s viewport for inspiration. The evening stars winked at him, appearing slightly dimmer than usual as they passed at low warp. It was, of course, his imagination, but he liked indulging himself with the pretense that stars looked different at the close of the ship’s day. 

When he turned back to his audience, still hoping for a brilliant idea to reach out, grab him by the shoulders and shake him, he decided it would be best to act something familiar. Every one of the faces smiling back at him felt familiar. Like family. Not just essential members of his crew, but people he genuinely loved. He rarely had the opportunity of seeing them together like this, happy and relaxed, off-duty, not treating him like their captain but their friend. It was a wonderfully warming feeling. 

Smiling back at them all, Picard couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere other than the _Enterprise_. So, he chose her. 

Lifting his hand and adopting the claw shape Worf chose to portray the ship, he began to act.

**Author's Note:**

> Heaps of thanks to asuralucier for your incredibly useful feedback (and enthusiasm!)
> 
> For those who'd like more info about what the gang acted out:
> 
>   * Worf's super-speedy gesture was indicative of Zefram Cochrane's warp drive and, presumably, whom the _Enterprise_'s shuttlecraft is named after.
>   * [This interesting blog post](http://jonbaas.blogspot.com/2012/03/how-to-play-parrises-squares.html) gathers all we know about Parrises Squares, a game we never see in action on TNG but hear about.
>   * _Something for Breakfast_ is a play Beverly wrote and tried to perform in _A Fistful of Datas_ (S06E08). She had trouble rehearsing because Data's interface experiment wiped the script and replaced it with his poetry. I like to think her play was a success after that initial problem!
>   * _Night Bird_ is the jazz song Riker was unable to perfect on trombone. Deanna requests he play it in _Second Chances_ (S06E24) but he's saved by a summon to the bridge.


End file.
